


The First Cut

by mogwai_do



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2435003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First do no harm? Sometimes fixing things means breaking them even more first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Cut

Kronos ducked into the gloom of the tent and paused thoughtfully at what he saw. Methos knelt on a thick fur, bare-chested, dark hair flowing untamed almost to his waist. In one long-fingered hand he held an obsidian blade – his favourite - more brittle than the crude metals, but holding a far finer edge. The other hand was held up before him as he traced delicate, flowing patterns down the pale skin of his forearm. The tiny cuts, no more than scratches, healed almost immediately with the faintest flicker of fire and on the next pass the blade bit just a fraction deeper.

Methos seemed focused on his work yet at the same time impossibly distant. He had been like this ever since he had consented to join Kronos' fledgling band of brothers – distant, detached, self-absorbed. Kronos had yet to determine a cause or a remedy; had he not known the elder Immortal centuries ago, he might have believed this behaviour normal. Methos had never spoken of the intervening years and Kronos himself had no use for the past, but it seemed that his dearest of brothers had not been as fortunate as he.

Still watching his brother out of the corner of his eye, Kronos casually crossed the tent and helped himself to a piece of fruit and a cup of wine before settling onto his brother's cushions. Methos would speak when he was ready and not before; it would do neither of them any good to force the issue. The sense of absence was slightly unnerving, but Kronos knew well enough that any threat would bring a swift and fatal response no matter how far away Methos’ mind journeyed. It was gratifying that his own presence did not cause such a reaction in his usually cautious brother. It lent weight to his thoughts of deepening their bond; he had thought of Methos often in his travels and their reunion, while not what he would have wished, had nevertheless strengthened his resolve. The distance between them now was a problem, but not an insurmountable one if he could only find the right way to bridge it.

Kronos' eyes wandered again to his brother, gilded in the lamplight as his movements continued, meditative and so fluid they seemed almost a trick of the light. For a moment longer he watched, almost hypnotised, before gathering up the stoppered jar of honeyed wine and approaching the ancient. Patience was probably the only virtue Methos laid claim to, but Kronos made no such claim. Despite his proximity, Methos still gave Kronos no more attention than the furnishings and it would have bothered him more if Methos hadn't treated everyone like that.

The tracery of cuts was deeper now, deep enough that they welled crimson in the moments before they sealed themselves. Absently Kronos wondered, if Methos were left to his own devices, whether the cuts would keep progressing until they struck bone. Whether Methos would carve his designs into his own bones, whether his Quickening would heal it fully or whether it would remain forever etched beneath his skin. Sometimes it felt as if Methos had done that to him, carved himself into Kronos’ core, leaving him forever conscious of his brother, a constant ache within his bones when they were apart. He shrugged off the thought; it was irrelevant since he fully intended to close the distance that had grown between them.

Facing his brother, Kronos unstoppered the jar, catching a breath of the heady, honey-thickened wine. Paying as little attention to his brother's face as Methos paid to his, Kronos focused on the extended arm and with the greatest of care he tipped the jar. He watched the thick liquid glide down the pale skin, following the channels of the almost-healed cuts Methos had carved. The golden liquid deepened to a sunset red as it mixed with his brother's blood. It had to sting like fury, but Methos did not so much as blink. Had Kronos not been who and what he was, the lack of reaction might have concerned him, instead he righted the jar, ending the viscous stream.

Now Methos looked at him, the dark eyes meeting his and holding them. Kronos felt his lips twitch in the beginnings of a smile; Methos was being patient as always, waiting for Kronos’ next move, but the air was charged with expectancy. Kronos felt his smile reach his eyes as he leaned forward and followed the narrow trails of honey and wine with lips and tongue, recognising the tang of blood in the mix and, underlying it all, the essence of Methos himself.

All the way from elbow to fingertips Kronos laved the pale skin clean, paying particular attention to the delicate skin of his brother's inner wrist when he heard the faintest of hitches in Methos' breathing. The arm receiving the attention remained steady throughout until Kronos sat back on his heels, his self-appointed task complete, then it slowly lowered to his brother’s lap. For a moment the scene could have been carved from stone as Kronos met his brother's dark eyes across the small physical distance separating them and felt the greater gulf narrowing rapidly. Whatever thoughts passed behind the eyes focused so acutely on him, he couldn't read them.

As suddenly as the moment had frozen, Methos' easy grace shattered it. Kronos never let his gaze waver as Methos offered the black blade in a hand that still glistened faintly from the passage of Kronos' tongue.

"Make me feel, brother." Methos' voice was a whisper as harsh as the desert winds Kronos knew so well - rough and hot and capable of flaying a man alive. It was a half-plea, half-command that Kronos had no intention of refusing. With a sure hand and all due respect, Kronos accepted the blade. His other hand came up to brush the tangled silk of Methos' hair back from his brother's face, clenching in a fist and using it to guide Methos' head back, baring his throat. So vulnerable. It awed him sometimes that Methos could allow himself to be so. For all Kronos knew he had no intention of true harm, Methos _couldn't_ know that and yet still he allowed it.

The blade was as sharp as he had expected as it traced the thinnest of red lines over and down Methos' straining throat until the point rested lightly in the hollow at the base. Kronos leaned forward, until he was almost above his brother's taut body, forcing it to arch backwards. He let their breath mingle, tasting Methos' complete absence of fear in the brief moment before he closed that final distance and took Methos' mouth in a slow, deep kiss, seeking and finally finding that so-intimate connection that had until now eluded him. Methos responded to the forceful invasion without hesitation, yet there was still a small, subtle distance, indefinable. Kronos drew back slowly, still holding his brother's eyes, and pulled just a little harder with the hand tangled in the dark mane.

"Make you feel, brother?" Kronos breathed against the straining red and white lacework of his brother's throat. He could feel it now, almost tangible, Methos teetering on the brink of the passion he believed he had lost. "I'll make you _burn_ ," he promised. And in the darkness of those eyes, Kronos watched the spark ignite and make the leap between them.

 

FIN  
15th November 2001


End file.
